


Shattered teacup

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock misses Jim. Misses him so much that after Sherrinford Jim returns. But the happiness doesn't last long.





	Shattered teacup

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Grey's Anatomy.

He felt it for days. Eyes on him when he wasn't looking, a presence he couldn't explain. It had happened to him before, when he was on his own on the continent, officially deceased. At that time, he had known it was all in his head and the person he missed was no longer among the living. Now he wasn't so sure. An entire fortnight had passed since the confrontation with Eurus and Sherlock couldn't shake off the strangest suspicion that Moriarty deceived Eurus and was still alive. The spider had been watching him from afar, calculated when to reveal himself, wondered if the time was right.

Sherlock did not tell anyone about it. He waited. The bittersweet anticipation, the promise of new adventures didn't let him sleep at night. He didn't want to miss the moment of Moriarty's return. His heart jumped whenever he heard footsteps before he recognised them. He waited.

 

He walked up the stairs, carrying his violin case, straight from Sherrinford. The doors to his flat were closed, there was no lingering scent of the familiar cologne in the stale air, nothing that would explain the exhilaration that rushed through him. But he knew, deep inside he knew he had a guest. He hesitated for a second, savoured the moment of tension and opened the door. Moriarty was in his chair, busy with his phone. He didn't look up and for a painfully long moment, Sherlock feared he had lost interest in him.

'Close the door,' Moriarty said and put his phone away.

Sherlock did as he was told without looking away, afraid Moriarty would disappear. He worried it was only a hallucination or a look-alike, another Richard Brooke.

Moriarty gave him a curious look, amused by the mixture of emotions Sherlock couldn't hide. 'You don't believe your own eyes, do you? Come here, touch me.' He held out his hand invitingly.

Sherlock found himself accepting the challenge. He left the violin by the door and crossed the room to him. He reached out and the tips of his fingers brushed Moriarty's. He breathed out a sigh of relief that turned into a surprised gasp when Moriarty unexpectedly pinched the skin on his palm.

'See? It's not a dream.'

Sherlock continued to stare at him, dizzy with disbelief and joy. He wanted Moriarty to come back, wanted it so much, even when he didn't believe Moriarty survived. Idiotic hope caused by every message from beyond the grave stopped feeling so stupid. Whatever was about to happen, whether his life was in danger or someone else's, he couldn't bring himself to care. The thrill of dealing with Moriarty, his least predictable adversary, was just as intoxicating as he remembered. How he longed to feel it again, all those years. How much it pained him that Eurus confirmed his death. He wanted to think that was the final problem, that was how Moriarty intended to burn the heart out of him. A glimpse into the life he could have and the dramatic end of it, then years of longing. But it was over, Moriarty came back to start a new chapter.

'That's bold, even for you,' Sherlock finally managed to speak. He took a seat opposite Moriarty, hoping the trembling of his knees went unnoticed. 'It's the middle of the day.'

'This is the advantage of being dead. People stop looking for you. I've been in London since last Thursday and nobody bothered me,' Moriarty pulled a face, 'which is a bit disappointing. The Iceman is getting old, won't be fun much longer. Won't you ask me how I outsmarted you there, on the rooftop?' Moriarty smirked, self-satisfied and proud. 'You were so devastated, poor little boy, so sure he was going to win. You didn't think of checking my pulse, did you? You weren't repulsed by the blood and bits of grey matter, you had seen death.'

'I didn't want you to die,' Sherlock confessed. There was no point in feigning indifference now. 'I couldn't believe it, although you seemed ready to die at the pool.'

A fond smile. 'I think we should try swimming there. Just to see if we will get out of it alive.'

Sherlock smiled back. He wondered if asking where Moriarty had been was worth the effort. Was he in Europe when Sherlock worked on disentangling his criminal web? Did he know how obsessed with him Sherlock was after his conveniently short exile? He must have known. Good.

They sat awhile in silence, observing each other. Neither of them dropped their eyes.

'What happens now?'

'I'm open to suggestions. Except for this one: let's see Eurus. She's not my Holmes of choice.'

Warmth filled his chest. Moriarty met Eurus after he had first approached Sherlock. He found a Holmes just as wicked as he was, yet he preferred Sherlock.

'Stay. Don't vanish again.' he suggested. Begged.

'I'll take it into consideration.' Moriarty stood up, straightened his jacket. 'I'll see myself out.'

Sherlock used every ounce of his willpower not to grab his arm as he passed him.

 

Moriarty must have been terribly bored because he began sneaking into Sherlock's flat on a regular basis, only when Sherlock was alone. Occasionally Sherlock would sense his presence while talking to a client. Moriarty would be lurking in the kitchen, listening, then offered drastic solutions and disturbing advice. Sherlock liked the secrecy, the attention and the times when John was leaving and Moriarty could finally walk out of his bedroom.

Moriarty wasn't the kind of person who would remind Sherlock to be careful with his experiments. He didn't exasperate him with comments about the biological hazard or the risk of burning down the entire building. On the contrary, he was amazed by Sherlock's morbid fascination and his tendency to store human remains in the fridge. Sherlock tried to keep a straight face, yet a treacherous smile softened his features and caught Moriarty's eye. 'What?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock replied, unable to conceal his glee.

He had been searching for a friend for so long, convinced he had to change to find one. As much as he cherished John, he knew his friendship was not unconditional. There were conditions and disobedience was punishable by silent treatment and disapproval, at best. But now Moriarty was back and with him, Sherlock could be himself. Nothing he could possibly do would repel Moriarty. Sherlock could embrace his dark side, revel in his morally questionable urges without the fear of losing him. He found it liberating.

As much as he enjoyed spending time with Moriarty, he began to wonder why Moriarty devoted so much time to him. He should have been preoccupied with plotting to destabilise the country or at least with teasing Mycroft. Nothing suggested that he was planning to get rid of Sherlock's friends or to kidnap him. Perhaps because Sherlock would go with him voluntarily. _We were made or each other, Sherlock_. 

Moriarty, _Jim_ , didn't pressure Sherlock to abandon his friends and run away with him. He gave Sherlock plenty of time to figure out what he wanted and admit to himself that catching adulterers red-handed was a waste of his potential. Sherlock appreciated it and was ready to give it all up, leave the ordinary life he used to think he liked.

 

Before burning his bridges, he decided to try something he had secretly craved. He kissed Jim. Lightly, experimentally, to see how it would feel. Jim smiled against his lips and made no move to force his tongue in or grab Sherlock by the neck, He let him explore at his own pace and Sherlock did, kissed the corners of his mouth, licked his bottom lip, feeling just slightly embarrassed by his inexperience, then nudged Jim's closed lips with the tip of his tongue and Jim let him in, kissed him back with passion. There was nothing alarming about it, Sherlock realised, as he moved closer and cupped the nape of Jim's neck. It felt right.

He led him to the bedroom and locked the door. Having John or Mycroft walk in on them would be unnecessarily disastrous. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, distracted by hot kisses placed on every inch of exposed skin. Jim didn't make the already complicated task of undressing while kissing any easier. His tongue travelled up Sherlock's chest, from his sternum to his clavicle and higher, until Sherlock breath came in desperate pants. Having given up on disrobing himself, he pushed Jim's jacket off his shoulders and managed to unbutton his shirt. Jim let him feel his teeth against the tender skin on his neck and unceremoniously shoved his knee between his. Grinding against each other, still clothed and against the wall didn't bother Sherlock in the slightest. As much as he wished for more direct contact, he was content with Jm's lips crushing his and his erection pressing into his inner thigh.

Jim had other plans. His oral fixation made him sink to his knees. Sherlock looked down, not sure if he could last long enough to let Jim play with him the way he wanted. Jim kept the eye contact whilst unfastening his trousers and pulling them down. He nuzzled Sherlock's groin, palmed him through the thin fabric of his pants, mouthed at the leaking head of his cock. He tugged the pants down, eyed the stiff prick pointing at him and moved forward, opening his mouth. 

Feeling the wet heat closing around him and seeing it was too much for Sherlock, he shut his eyes and bit his lip. He tried to hold still, let Jim suck him, but his hips stuttered and thrust forward without his conscious decision. Jim chuckled and gave a murmuring sound. Without stopping, he guided Sherlock's hands to the back of his head, indicating he didn't mind having his throat fucked. Sherlock felt him relaxing around his shaft, sucking became lazy licking. He accepted the invitation and tightened his grip, thrust into his willing mouth, harder than he intended. Jim tipped his head back, keeping the right angle and didn't gag. Sherlock could feel the tightness of his throat, the touch of his tongue as he withdrew and the teasing hint of teeth. He stared at Jim's face, his eyes closed in concentration, wetness in the corners of his eyes and listened to his ragged breathing. He noticed repetitive movements of Jim's hips, his right hand was between his folded legs. Pleased that they both find it enjoyable, Sherlock focused on choosing where he was going to finish. He wanted to mark Jim's face and then lick it clean. The sheer idea pushed him closer and his thrusts tested Jim's limits. He tapped his fingers on Sherlock's thigh to get his attention. Sherlock leant back against the wall, instead of apologising for being too rough, he watched Jim's swollen lips and his wild eyes.

'Turn around,' Jim's voice was hoarse and promised new pleasure.

Sherlock didn't think of arguing. He shifted and rested his forehead on his forearms, unsure what to expect. Hands stroked his buttocks, gently at first, then squeezed to the point of pain. He whimpered but pushed his arse into the touch. His cock, hard and lubricated with Jim's saliva, bobbed between his legs helplessly. Jim surprised him with a playful slap to his cheek, soothed with a lingering kiss. He felt Jim's fingers digging into his flesh, spreading his cheeks until his entrance was exposed. His shaky breath caught in his throat when he felt Jim's mouth _there_. It was nothing like Sherlock imagined, Jim's skilled tongue traced the rim, licked it languorously and finally slipped in.

An obscenely loud moan escaped his lips before he regained his composure. Jim set to work, pushed his tongue deeper. Sherlock's felt his eyes roll back in his head and bucked back, eager to take more of it, feel Jim's face pressed snugly against him. Jim hummed in approval, held onto his hips to keep him in place and settled for a shallower penetration. The combination of tiny licks and gliding in and out was driving Sherlock mad. He couldn't make up his mind, he lowered his hand many times to stroke himself, but he wanted the sweet agony to last.

Jim's exploration was unhurried and thorough, but eventually, he replaced his tongue with his index finger. He stopped playing, he reached Sherlock's prostate and circled it with the pad of his finger, then pressed. The reaction was instantaneous, Sherlock had never felt anything more intense or pleasurable. His whole body tensed up, he heard his own surprised yelp. It did not compare to quick, solitary wanking. He could barely breathe, amazed by the force of his orgasm. Jim removed his finger and ran his hands up and down Sherlock's shivering thighs, then got to his feet and took his clothes off.

'Lie down on the bed. We're not finished yet.'

 

They stopped hiding. None of Sherlock's friends would understand his attraction to Jim, Mycroft might, but he would disapprove of it. It didn't matter. For the first time when they heard approaching footsteps, John's, Jim didn't exit the room in a hurry. This time he stayed, sprawled comfortably on the sofa, smirking. Sherlock prepared himself for a flaming row and straightened his back.

'Hi,' John said and walked in. He went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. 'You will not believe what Rosie did.'

'Assassinated her stuffed toys?' Jim sniggered, amused by his own sense of humour.

John ignored him. While waiting for the water to boil, he strode into the sitting room and saw the look on Sherlock's face. 'Anything happened?'

Sherlock didn't answer. He couldn't. One more look at the sofa, Jim was definitely there, as real as he had been since his return. A terrifying thought made Sherlock's blood run cold. He shook his head, turned away from Jim, not able to face him. A bile rose in his throat and he felt disoriented as though he were drugged.

'What's going on? Are you not feeling well?'

Sherlock nearly stumbled on his way to his chair, the floor swayed under his feet. He sat on the edge of the chair, dropped his head into his hands. A heavy weight in his chest didn't let him breathe properly. Alarming thoughts were spinning in his brain and he struggled to focus on making up a believable excuse. John was seconds away from pulling up his sleeve, or worse.

'I'm fine,' he said in a mumble, not daring to lift his head just yet. A wave of nausea hit him hard. 'I'm just a bit off colour.'


End file.
